


Estranged and All Alone (Act III)

by actingwithportals



Series: We Are Wide Awake Now [8]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Abyss Memory Cutscene (and all that entails), Accidental Self-Harm, Angst, Brief suicidal ideation, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Gen, Ghost and Grimmchild are bffs and no one can tell me otherwise, Ghost has a real bad time: the trilogy, Ghost refers to themself without a name, Ghost uses they/them pronouns, Grimmchild is referred to as "the child", Grimmchild is referred to with they/them pronouns, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Breathing, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Past Character Death, Self-Loathing, Suicide-Baiting Intrusive Thoughts, Two Shot, Violent/Accusatory Intrusive Thoughts, seriously though heed the warnings above because shit gets bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24937405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actingwithportals/pseuds/actingwithportals
Summary: The whole world seemed to call to them, and no amount of turning away could make them ignore it forever.But sometimes, amidst the painful cries and piercing shrieks, kinder things called to them as well.And maybe, for those calls, it was worth slowing down long enough to listen.
Relationships: Grimm & The Knight (Hollow Knight), Grimmchild & The Knight (Hollow Knight), Hornet & The Knight (Hollow Knight), The Knight & Nailmaster Mato (Hollow Knight)
Series: We Are Wide Awake Now [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740406
Comments: 63
Kudos: 151





	1. The Warmth, It Will Devour Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just emphasize before we get started.
> 
> This Ghost backstory arc was originally meant to be a oneshot.
> 
> A. Oneshot.
> 
> And here I am, posting Act III - that is going to have a SECOND CHAPTER - before posting the final, hopefully single chapter, Act IV.
> 
> I have no self control, and Ghost clearly has a lot to say. Let's do this.

They’d never had a home before.

Dirtmouth wasn’t home, but if they’d had any past experiences to pull from, they would have thought it felt something close to that. Not quite, but close. Climbing out of the well from the enclosed kingdom below into the open fading town above made something in their nothingness – their void – feel almost lighter.

As if simply entering this place had lifted the weights they had gained over the last several days.

The first thing they needed to do was stop by the cartographer and his wife’s shop. Cornifer and Iselda; those were their names. Names were important to bugs, they knew this. Every bug had a name; Hornet had one too.

Did they have a name?

**_(Names are for bugs, not for you.)_ **

Hornet had called them _“ghost”_ , several times now even. Was that a name, or a title, or maybe even just a descriptor? Did she simply call them this out of necessity for a way to address them?

Would she offer “Ghost” as a name for them?

**_(Asking requires a voice. You weren’t meant to have one of those, either.)_ **

Though the little town settled them, they didn’t stay in Dirtmouth for very long, just enough time to replace their quill and ink and then purchase new charms from the shopkeeper – Sly – across from the cartographer’s own store. There were more bugs in the town now, its size doubling in quantity since that first night when they appeared in this kingdom. They were all faces they recognized, all names they knew and were comfortable enough to meet their gazes and respond to their waves in kind. Some even returned their waves with expressions that seemed to grow ever warmer, as if the simple gesture had meant something to them.

Oh. They hadn’t done that before, had they?

They lowered their hand quickly and hurriedly set off on their path.

With their supplies restocked and their charms adjusted, it was time to return to the road once more. Though Dirtmouth was comfortable and safe, it was not the place to rest.

There was somewhere else that was better suited for that.

* * *

The Howling Cliffs were desolate and unwelcoming, but they didn’t deter them in the slightest.

These cliffs had been the first place in Hallownest they’d seen, and though something about them itched against their mind like a long-forgotten warning, even that unease could not outweigh the comfort they had come to associate with this place.

Someone waited for them here.

They stopped by the bench at the entrance to the hut tucked within a cavern, organizing their charms and other goods once more and cleaning clots of infection off of their nail. It would be rude to soil the nailmaster’s home with something so unsightly.

When they entered the home proper, the nailmaster greeted them as he always did before; a warm expression, kind words of welcome, and a gentle pat on their mask. He called them _“my child”_ again, as if those words meant something more than a simple placeholder for someone without a name. He told them how happy he was to see them return, how it warmed his heart that they would come all this way to visit. He invited them to sit, to meditate, to drink tea (they always let the cup sit before them, untouched), and even though he should have already known that they did not ever respond, he always asked if they were well.

They didn’t have an answer for that; but this time, it had nothing to do with their lack of a voice. But that wasn’t why they’d come back to this place; they needed rest, time to clear their mind, not further worries.

Mato. The nailmaster’s name was Mato. He’d introduced himself as such, and they would do well to remember it. Mato taught them how to better wield their nail, how to hold back when an enemy threatened to overwhelm them, how to rest when the fighting became too much. He taught them there could be strength in one’s silence, just as there could be power in one’s cries.

Never did they show him an acknowledgement of his words other than to take them and learn. Never did he berate them for their silence.

Maybe one day they could finally answer him his many words.

**_(Why would he want to hear your thoughts? Little shadows like you have nothing important to say.)_ **

Mato poured them both tea, and as usual they did not touch the cup. But they sat with him, watching patiently as he took sips between conversations, or simply enjoyed the silence when he had no words to speak either. Perhaps this time they had let their gaze linger a little longer on his face before turning away for a moment of shared quiet. Perhaps for once they decided to sit and rest longer than they truly needed. And perhaps, just perhaps, when Mato stood to grab a blanket from his nest and drape it over their shoulders, they did not flinch away from the contact, did not stand and decide now was a good time to leave.

Maybe this time they could let him lift them into his lap and rest their mask against his warm cloak.

They couldn’t remember the last time they truly rested within the comfort of safety.

Maybe it was undeserved. Maybe for now, they didn’t care.

It was a long time before they moved again. Mato didn’t seem to mind; he didn’t even comment. They were grateful for that. But as they rose to standing, repositioning their nail to their back and checking over their cloak to make sure they had everything they needed to set off, Mato stopped them with more words. He told them of a brother who lived not far away, deep within the Greenpath. He told them that, if they wished to further their skills with a nail, to visit him and ask for his teachings, if he would be so willing to share.

They had already taken more than they should without giving anything in return, but they could not argue his advice. Did not even have the words to make their case. So they bowed, just as he taught, and they set off into the dark, blowing winds of the outside world once again.

Alone, once again.

**_(It’s better this way. No one can leave you if you’re alone.)_ **

They had planned to rest after that meeting with Hornet days ago, allow themself to take a moment to recharge for the journey ahead that she warned them to work towards. But Hallownest had not stopped counting on them, and neither had she, nor had the one who called to them that first time. They would all not wait for them to rest for very long; the infection would not sit idly while they dawdled.

The moment of respite was over; it was time to get back to work.

One of the entrances to Greenpath shouldn’t be far away from the Howling Cliffs, they remembered. They had stumbled across it once, weeks ago now. It was a treacherous trek, but worth the shortcut. If the other nailmaster lived somewhere in that land, it would be a worthy effort to spend the time trekking it once again. Any skills they could gain for the task set out before them was probably worth the detour.

But they didn’t make it to Greenpath, to that other nailmaster. Not today. For along their journey across the Howling Cliffs, something entirely new called to them. Something that burned in a different way than the infection. Something deeper, darker.

And no matter how they tried, they could not ignore it.

So they sought it out, the call that rang like a heartbeat within the earth. It brought them to a cavern where a torch and a corpse lay, and upon their arrival these things which called in that dark and deep way made the gift from the old moth shine with a burning, crimson light.

They listened to the heartbeat’s call, and with their nails drawn in ready, they brought forth flame into the dying kingdom of Hallownest.

* * *

A song played throughout Dirtmouth.

The Elderbug hated it, he told them as such. It filled him with dread and apprehension, and they couldn’t entirely disagree. Whatever flame they had awoken in the Howling Cliffs now took up residence on the outskirts of the town and their fiery tents hardly set their void at ease. Though the warmth didn’t burn like the infection below, it was still sweltering to the touch, and they weren’t sure it was something they wished to approach.

But the song called to them, beckoned them to enter, and they really hadn’t learned to say no to calls yet, had they?

The bugs that occupied the tents were strange, but not entirely unfriendly. Though their masks unsettled them, and spoke of falsities and hidden secrets within, they could not bring themself to display any distaste when their gazes met. They knew what it was like to turn others away with nothing more than a look. They understood that loneliness well.

The bugs spoke of a torch, and one who had lit it. They couldn’t deny they knew what the bugs meant, but they didn’t confirm it, either. So when they were twice told to _“speak to master,”_ they felt they could do nothing more than obediently comply.

Master, as it turned out, was the bearer of that song that called to them. They could hear it playing just below the surface of his voice, as if it were there but suppressed, trapped within and waiting to be freed. His own voice rasped and wavered, and some part of them thought that they should be frightened, that they should listen with growing dread and disquiet, but they could not. Though flames dimly burned around them, and chattering whispers reached with fingers too long out towards their cloak, they did not flinch, did not turn away.

The master introduced himself as Grimm, and they wondered absently if that were a name or a title, if perhaps like them, he didn’t truly have a name. They longed for that similarity, though they could not explain why.

**_(Because you killed everything else like you. You wouldn’t need to seek out comfort from other monsters if you hadn’t.)_ **

Grimm told them of a ritual, of flames collected for the purpose of rebirth and a dance between fire and shadow. He gave them a new charm, and with it brought forth the first thing that did truly make them pause in startled unease.

A child. Grimm’s child. And he expected them to be companions for the sake of that ritual which he tasked upon their shoulders.

They’d never . . . had a companion before. The Wastelands had seen to that. Perhaps at one time they would have hoped for it, would have _craved_ it.

Perhaps they still did.

**_(Not for you. Companions break, and you’re so good at breaking things, remember?)_ **

Though their void roiled with apprehension, they did not tell Grimm no.

Not like they had the choice.

The child was very much like their father, but where his voice rasped and creaked, the child’s own rang with a vibrant spark. Though the words were not easy to parse – a language too far removed from what they had grown familiar with from listening to other bugs – the child made their intentions as clear as the timbre of their tone.

The child seemed . . . nice. Friendly. And they didn’t cower at their unblinking eyes or their blank expression. Did not shrink from the sight of their fathomless nothingness.

Maybe a companion could be alright. For now.

* * *

They learned early on that the child was very vocal.

Traveling through the Crossroads wasn’t that noteworthy, they had always thought. But the child made a point to remark on seemingly every husk and stone they passed. Part of them wanted to feel annoyed, jealous even, but watching as the child flew about the tunnels with innocent wonder, they couldn’t help but feel warmed by the noise. They still didn’t understand them, but they thought it was alright. The child had no way of understanding them, either.

Yet they stayed with them without question. They waited for them when they flew too far ahead, they did not cower and hide when a husk would take a swing in their direction. And when they had to take pauses in order to focus the pale light that healed them, the child hovered close and watched for danger that would threaten to strike.

It was reassuring.

But unfortunately, even the constant chatter could not drown out the call that reached for them along the road. For the call grasped through their void, churned it until it thrashed and felt as if their nothingness would tear them apart from the inside.

Right. The temple was here. The something inside of it was here, and it must have known they were here too.

They did not stop at the temple as they passed; they did not think back to rain and stone and silk and tales of sacrifices. They did not think of it. _Could not think of it._

**_(They left you. They left all of you. Maybe you should leave them too. Let them rot. Let them burn. Let them scream and wail and beg for a savior that will never come. That’s what they left for you, isn’t it? What they left for all of you.)_ **

The temple faded into the gloom behind them, and neither they nor the child looked back.

**_(. . . You really do abandon everyone, don’t you?)_ **

There was a song further in, further down. They knew the melody well, had sat to listen to it for a long time before. With a look back to make sure the child still followed, they hurried further down the Crossroads, towards the mines just to the east.

Light sparkled and glinted with the ring of a pickaxe, the melody swelling with the beat. The miner – Myla, she was called Myla – greeted them with the same enthusiasm she had the times prior. Even the child earned her welcome.

But the child did not respond in kind. They kept their distance, whining in what sounded to them like distrust. They watched the child carefully for a moment before turning back to her, attempting to understand what raised their concern. She was a friendly face, one of the friendliest. Did the child not share the same sentiment?

Myla turned back to face them, wavering on a note as her song abruptly came to a halt. And just as her eyes met their gaze, the light of the crystals around them reflected in her stare.

_Oh. Oh no._

They glowed like the sun.

For a moment, all they could do was stand still. She did not hold their stare, pausing only long enough to regain her melody and turn back to her work, her voice lilting again in her usual tune. She could not notice the way they had grown cold, and this time not with the usual familiarity of their nothingness.

Things really did always come to an end, didn’t they?

**_(It’s already starting. She’ll be just like them, soon. Just like those husks outside that you cut down without a second thought. There’s nothing you can do.)_ **

They trembled, faltered for a moment, and promptly ran out of the mine.

They did not notice the child’s surprised chirp. Did not notice the way Myla dropped her axe in alarm. Did not notice the erratic flapping of wings chasing after them as they fled.

They ran, and that was simply all they knew.

**_(You should kill her. End her suffering quickly. It would be kind. Why can’t you just be kind for once? Why must you always run and leave them to suffer longer?!)_ **

Their claws scraped against stone and crystal, mine after mine blurring past in colors too bright for them to discern. It was always too bright. _Everything was too bright._

**_(You left the bigger one to burn in that ashen place. Slowly, painfully, alone. How long do you think it took for their shell to erode and their void to spill out like an overturned inkwell? How much do you think it hurt when the acid flooded inside of them? HOW LONG DO YOU THINK THEY SCREAMED FOR YOU TO COME SAVE THEM ONLY FOR YOU TO ABANDON THEM IN THAT PLACE?)_ **

Something whirred past their mask, but they did not falter, did not slow. The brightness was catching up to them. It was going to get inside of them too.

Just like Myla.

**_(You’re always doing this, you know. Always leaving when it gets too hard. You run and you run, and you never look back and you never give peace to the ones you leave behind like a coward. Weak, selfish, monster, MONSTER! WHY CAN’T YOU DIE INSTEAD FOR ONCE, YOU FUCKING MONSTER?!)_ **

The mines glowed with an all-consuming light, until the ground finally gave way beneath them, swallowing them until the world went dark.

And then the world was no more.

* * *

It was the low purr of something warm against their carapace that eventually woke them.

The child was curled up against their side, wings twitching at every other moment as their head swiveled back and forth, watching for danger. As they lifted their mask, awareness slowly coming back to them, the child screeched in what they imagined was both alarm and relief, if the way they nuzzled their mask against their own held any meaning.

The world wasn’t so bright anymore. In fact, it was an uncomfortably familiar dull haze. They pushed themself up to sitting, their shell creaking with the effort (they could feel some cracks along their front where they must have hit the ground) and looked around to inspect their surroundings.

Oh. This place again.

Three masks stared down at them coldly, accusingly. They did not speak this time, did not whisk them away to a place with too much light.

They remained as stone, and somehow that was almost more unnerving.

The child bumped against their mask once more, prompting them to turn away from the memorial to the Dreamers. That’s what the stone had said, and what the old moth had called them. They had no time for dreams, and instead moved their attention back to the child, rising on shaky legs and attempting to fully get their bearings.

The Resting Grounds, right, that’s what this place was. The old moth wouldn’t be far away, would she? Perhaps they could visit her? Their shell ached, and they weren’t sure they had enough pale light stored within themself to mend everything that was cracked. A rest would be good. Yes, they would rest.

Just for a short time.

The old moth welcomed them kindly and did not even bat an antenna at the sight of the child. She laughed when they buzzed in hopes for her tea, forcing her to rise and make a cup for both of them, inviting them to settle in for a time.

They did not allow themself to stay for long, just enough to ease the ache of their wounds and for the child to rest. The child was still very young after all, they supposed. And while they slept, Seer inspected the nail she had gifted them, infused it with the essence they’d gained since they last sat with her, and when the child had still not woken, told them stories of moths who came before her.

They thought they liked listening to her stories.

She did not ask for them to tell their own in return, but she seemed to somehow know there were questions they would want answered. And answer, she did. Though there were many things Seer could not tell them (or chose not to? They weren’t sure), she did tell them of spirits that still walked amidst Hallownest, and she told them of light that burned too harshly, far more harshly than it was ever meant to shine.

She told them of a radiance that captivated her tribe, and of how her tribe eventually forsook that warmth for something colder.

Paler.

Perhaps the radiance that once enamored the moths was enraged by that pale light, Seer had mused. Perhaps the plague that infected that pale light’s people was retribution for old crimes committed.

Perhaps that radiance, too, could feel lonely.

They did not respond to her musings. She might not have even wanted such a thing from them. She seemed sorrowful to speak of it, maybe even regrettable; they hardly doubted it was a place she would want them to infringe upon.

And they weren’t sure they could sympathize. Not after how the something within the temple shuddered their void in a desperation even they could not conceive on their own. Not after Myla.

Their tea remained untouched, but Seer did not rebuke them for it, did not even question it. Moths, at least, seemed more forgiving than their abandoned light.

When the child woke, they rose to much steadier legs, bowing their mask to Seer in thanks, and setting off once more.

They decided they’d had just enough light for now.

* * *

Collecting the flames for the child was an easier task than anticipated.

Hunting down their apparent kin and slaying them to feed the child the flames of their passing was . . . an endeavor, yes. But the child did not seem particularly perturbed by this, and neither did the kin, presumably. It was almost . . . fun.

It had been a while since they’d experienced that.

Companionship wasn’t a terrible thing. They had even begun to start making sense of the child’s constant chirps and screeches. They were an animated little thing, with strong opinions on almost every subject that presented itself to them, and different words for every occasion. They almost thought it could be worth trying to communicate back.

Almost.

The child still did not argue their silence, nor did they seem put off by it. In fact, they seemed more than content to speak enough for the both of them, and for this they were grateful. They weren’t sure words were a thing that suited them, even if they did have a voice with which to bring them forward.

But sometimes they remembered the song of silk that would pierce through the air, and something within their void ached for a voice to call after that tune, to make themself heard for her to listen and want to hear more.

Maybe they would learn to communicate someday. For Hornet. But not today. Today was for fighting, and hunting, and – when time allowed, and the child insisted – maybe even playing.

Today, they could be a child too. Just for a little while.

* * *

Hallownest was truly an impressive place.

Every time they thought they had uncovered the entirety of a territory, they found yet another road hidden, another tunnel unexplored. Whether it was new secrets above the Mantis Village, mysterious canyons below the Greenpath, or entire undiscovered locations just before the Kingdom’s Edge, there was always something new.

The Hive had been one of the more unexpected finds, but it was not entirely unwelcome. Though the light within the little queendom’s walls was a bit warmer than comfortable, the beauty of the glow was not entirely something that could be dismissed. And seeing as there was a flame within those walls to claim, the child was more than happy to make the journey with them.

Finding the body of the queen, however, made the affair a bit more forlorn than they would have hoped.

Even the child had quieted as they exited, keeping their usual stream-of-consciousness comments mostly to themself all the way into the ash of Kingdom’s Edge.

And it wasn’t until a miss with another of their kin did the child finally break their uncharacteristic silence and cry out again.

They had taken a tumble while dodging an incoming attack; one so careless they could almost berate themself if not for the acid pool that approached with the speed of a honing bellfly.

Dimly, they were aware of how horribly coincidental this was, moments before they hit the sizzling waves.

It burned, that much was immediately clear. And for a time that was simply all they knew. It burned and burned and burned, and though it was in a way that wasn’t like the infection that bit at their claws when husks drew too close, that distinct difference didn’t bring them any comfort.

_So this is what that other one must have felt. This is what they supposedly abandoned them to._

It would be fitting, then, that their journey end here, wouldn’t it?

Something grasped at them, then; something with claws that dug into their shoulders a bit too roughly, a bit too haphazardly, and _yanked_. The burning didn’t stop, but they could tell they were at least no longer submerged in it. Whatever had pulled them out released them, but only long enough to grasp at them once more, this time the front of their cloak and shaking and shoving as if hoping to dislodge something that was stuck inside.

A mask bumped against theirs, and in a vague, distant way, they knew it was familiar, knew it was comforting.

The claws dug in deeper, but they didn’t hurt. Not much hurt besides the burning. Maybe that was for the best.

For a while, the world was quiet. It still burned, still ached, but it was quiet. It was peaceful.

Until it wasn’t.

The claws gripped them tightly, pulling them close into the comforting warmth they had come to somehow trust. A low growl issued from within the child that held them, the rumble of it echoing across their singed carapace. Something had approached them; something had set them off.

And that something called out to them.

It was a gruff voice, hard and not exactly kind. Part of them knew they should be on alert, should force themself to rise into standing, hold out their nail and challenge this new foe, if only to defend their young companion. But whenever they tried to move, their limbs shook with the effort, and the child only clutched them more insistently.

The voice approached despite the child’s harsh warnings, and though the words were beyond their grasp of understanding, they started to think that maybe they did not speak of threats. For though it continued to come closer, that approach was slow, cautious. And until the child’s growls subsided enough for it to come within reach, it waited before carefully grasping at their cloak with claws far larger than their own.

They were lifted into the air, gently, carefully, and the world finally spun into a white-out haze.

The child’s alarmed chirp was the last thing their awareness knew.

* * *

The burning was mostly gone by the time they woke up.

There was a warmth at their side again, curled against their shell in a way they immediately recognized as the child. The next thing that became apparent to them was that they were lying down on something soft, and another soft thing was drawn over them as well.

They shifted, patting over themself to check for damage. From what they could initially tell, there was surprisingly very little.

That rough voice spoke up now, startling them into full awareness as it began to speak of void and soul. That soul could heal a thing such as them, and that they had been lucky enough he always kept some handy.

They didn’t understand this, but they could not question it.

The voice introduced himself as Oro, and where his words were unfamiliar, his face was not. The resemblance was uncanny, and the fact that they could not inquire upon it made it all the more distressing. But Oro did not speak of other nailmasters, did not mention the name Mato.

Instead, he spoke of their own recklessness, of foolish children playing in graveyards and asking for death like it was a succulent treat. He spoke of repeated frustrations of fishing children out of acid, and how he would not let this debt go unpaid. Not again. Not anymore.

They didn’t understand him, but he did not give them room to inquire, if such a thing were something they could do. Even the child was ignored in favor of demands for payment. And, well, it wasn’t like geo were a thing they were ever low on.

They paid him what he asked, bowed in thanks for his (begrudging, apparently) kindness, and turned to leave him be.

But the sight of something dark and tattered and all too familiar hanging with cloaks much larger than itself froze them in their tracks. A cloak that looked very much like their own, if not a little bigger, a little more beaten, a little more used.

_Exactly how many children did this bug say he fished out of acid pools?_

They didn’t need to so much as point for him to understand their hesitation, didn’t need to even turn his way before he demanded they hurry and leave. And though the child tugged at their cloak with impatient insistency, they did not heed either’s words.

They planted themself on the floor of Oro’s hut, and wordlessly waited for answers.

Oro sighed, held out a hand for further payment, and sat before them with a huff.

He didn’t share much, just enough to confirm the suspicions that were growing in their mind. He spoke briefly of a child much like them that he found in much the same way, minus the flying terror (they had to hold the child back at this remark). He told them that this had occurred long ago, and that the child was long gone. To where, he did not know.

Their void itched at that, and with a sickening realization it occurred to them that for once they were sure they knew why.

**_(You really do destroy everything you touch, don’t you?)_ **

He wouldn’t say anything more, and with the child being equally in the dark on their thoughts, they had no way of pressing the matter further. But they were not yet ready to leave. He still bore an uncomfortable resemblance to one they thought of fondly, and they were not going to easily let that go unexplained.

More geo was demanded; more explanations were given.

There were three of them, the nailmasters. Mato, Sheo, and Oro. When they stood to show him the nail art Mato had taught them, he did not seem entirely surprised. In fact, he almost seemed amused. And after further coaxing with yet more geo, he agreed to teach them a nail art of his own.

He was harsher than Mato, less forgiving with his attacks and not so gentle with his encouragements, but he taught well. Though he clicked in disapproval at the state of their nail, he did not hold back on the knowledge he was paid to impart. That, at least, they could respect.

The skill was learned, the burning long gone, and the child well rested. There was no further information to be pulled from him, no further lessons to be learn.

They bowed once more in thanks, repositioned their nail to their back, and left the hut and the ashen land behind.

It was time to move on again.

* * *

The City of Tears was the same as it ever was.

The rain pounded against the stone of the architecture, distorting the sound of husks that still marched to and fro in unforgotten duty. It was easy to avoid them now that they had learned the former sentries’ routes, but keeping the child from flying off to pick fights with the other winged bugs – safely protected by their armor, unlike the bare child themself – was a far more tedious task.

It had been too long since they’d taken a rest recently; now was not the time for unnecessary scuffles. And besides, there were bugs they needed to see before searching for the reason that brought them back to the City in the first place.

The relic seeker’s shop was their first stop; after the time (and geo) spent with Oro, they were in dire need of funding. If they hoped to re-forge their nail as Oro had suggested, they were certain geo would be required. And likely a hefty amount, as well.

He wasn’t the friendliest bug – Lemm, that was his name. And he did not take kindly to the child, a point that itched irritation at their chitin. But he was useful, resourceful, and did not tarry longer on words than necessary. They appreciated that of him, and even felt some small satisfaction at helping him grow his collection of rarities. At least someone could make use of the strange things they found along the roads of their journey.

Next was returning to the first bench they had found in the City upon their initial arrival. That was the last place they had seen their fr-. . . that kindly bug, Quirrel. And they hoped to see him again. It would be nice to take a rest next to him once more, after having traveled for so long. And this time with the child at their side, they could be in the company of two friendly faces at once.

But when they arrived at the spot, the bench was unoccupied, and the rain pattered on against the large window beside it in empty silence.

Right. That was weeks ago now, wasn’t it? It was unlikely he would still be in the same place; Quirrel seemed to be the sort that had things to do, places to see, tasks to carry out. Just as they did. Expecting him to simply be waiting for them to return whenever they felt the fancy was . . . silly. He had no reason to wait for them. He had never owed them his time.

It’s not like they were friends.

**_(Perhaps he’s like Myla now? Slowly fading away somewhere, just as everyone else did. Will you run away from him too, when your paths cross again?)_ **

They took a seat on the bench, pulled up their legs so that they tucked against their chest, and rested their mask on their knees.

They were tired.

The child must have been tired as well, because a moment later the sound of their flapping wings disappeared, replaced by a feeling of warmth at their side, instead. That was nice, at least. It was good to know that something was still there. That they weren’t entirely alone.

**_(But aren’t you?)_ **

They weren’t alone. They had the child, and Mato, and Iselda and Cornifer, and My-. . . and Qui-. Well. They weren’t alone. Not anymore. Hornet was still out there, too. She had let them hold her hand. She didn’t pull away from their cold touch. As long as she was still out there, they wouldn’t be alone.

**_(Unless she’s faded too.)_ **

Hornet was too strong to fade. They knew that, had seen that when they fought her. She wouldn’t succumb, she wouldn’t become infected. They wouldn’t allow it.

**_(Like how you didn’t allow Myla? Like how you didn’t let the bigger one fall? Or the other one get taken? Or that first one be stolen by the light? Like any of the ones you’ve done so well to save? Because you’ve saved so many, right?!)_ **

They wrapped their arms around their legs more tightly, their claws digging into the softer parts of their shell.

**_(Who have you actually ever saved? That greedy little shopkeeper? That timid beetle and her worthless prince? You’ve never saved anyone that mattered. Never anyone important to you. You ran and you ran, and you never looked back and that’s why you’re alone.)_ **

They could feel their chitin creaking under their claws, the child chirping in distress and attempting to draw their attention with patting their wings at their mask. Their claws only sunk deeper.

**_(You’ve never truly saved anyone at all. You deserve to be alone.)_ **

Something snapped, but they didn’t feel it, not in an immediate way that reached them. The child was pulling on their arms now, trying to pry their claws loose. But they were still young, and even with the flames they had collected they were still much weaker than themself.

**_(Why would Hornet EVER care for a failure like you? What could she POSSIBLY owe you? All she sees from you is a means to an end. Because you can do what she cannot, what the stolen one could not. Because you’re really the empty one, aren’t you? Something that wasn’t empty would have saved them, would have reached them in time.)_ **

Something cold was pouring over their hands now, something that froze and stung and yet still somehow soothed in the way their nothingness always did. A distant part of them knew they shouldn’t be feeling that, that their void shouldn’t be outside of them like this. But that thought was too hazy, too abstract to fully grasp. So they just dug harder, hoping they would reach it this way instead.

Hoping for once they would reach _something._

**_(It should have been you. It should have been YOU. Why are you the only one left free when you can’t even let yourself FEEL IT?)_ **

They didn’t understand. _They didn’t understand._ Nothing had made sense since arriving in Hallownest. The infection, Hornet, the Hollow Knight, the Pale King, void; all of it shouted for them to listen, to understand, to _do something about it_ , but they didn’t know _anything._

Why were they here?

**_(The Dreamers told you to fade away. Maybe you should. Hallownest has no use for shadows, anymore. Even the ghosts aren’t wanted. Just fade away.)_ **

Maybe they should.

Something sharp and far too hot bit into their hand, yanking them out of the swirling thoughts as it pulled the hand away from where the claws had been tearing into the underside of their legs. They looked up with a start, free hand reaching behind them to grasp their nail before empty eyes met those of scarlet flame.

The child.

The tension that had built up in their void eased slightly, the free hand dropping slowly to rest on their knee. It was cold and dripping, and when they broke the child’s gaze to look down, they could see wisps of void rising from the claws.

Oh.

The child relaxed their bite, but not enough to release the hand entirely. They watched them for a moment, staring burning points into the empty sockets of where their own eyes should have been if they were something less . . . whatever they were. For a moment, they both did nothing more than stare, until the child seemed to decide that they were satisfied with whatever they saw and released the grip on their hand from their jaws, choosing instead to press themself between their thorax and legs and spreading their wings around them so that their arms could no longer reach the sensitive parts of their legs that had been cracked open.

It was . . . nice. Warm. A stark contrast to the chill of their void. They realized with a sudden shake of concern that void was a thing that seemed to hurt any bug besides themself, and the child had taken one of their hands that was surely covered with it _directly into their mouth_. But the child did not behave as if they were injured, or even remotely bothered. So they did not try to find a way to argue; did not push the child away.

They wrapped their shaking arms around them, too, and simply let the warmth calm the noise in their mind.

* * *

It was a long time before they left the bench.

The child was quiet now, flying close instead of zooming ahead or getting distracted by something behind, and only making a sound when snarling at an upcoming husk in warning. They seemed more adamant to assist in taking them down, and while they knew they should feel grateful for the help, all it did was fill them with a terrible mingling of worry and guilt.

They were a child; they shouldn’t be expected to fight.

They didn’t remember ever being a child, if they ever had to fight as one. Maybe that’s because they still were.

Luckily, finding the Nailsmith that Oro had spoken of didn’t take terribly long. His forge was just outside of the City, near the edge of the Fungal Wastes, and there were few notably dangerous sentries to cross along the way. He was a quiet bug, with a calming voice, and his prices for the work needed to be done on their nail seemed reasonable, as far as they could tell.

While he worked, they waited outside with the child, who still seemed far too quiet for someone who had before been so vocal, and whose entire kin seemed to thrive on their vibrancy. It made their void twist in discomfort.

Had they bothered them that much, earlier?

The Nailsmith had told them about all of the nails sitting outside of his forge, going off into a story about someone who’d left them there for him to refine, as if he thought they might be curious. He hadn’t been wrong – they were – but they wondered what led him to think such a thing at all.

Had they somehow given him that impression?

Some of the nails were yet to be completed, while others were finished as close to perfection as he could manage. They didn’t think he would mind too much if they tested one or two out, at least they hoped he wouldn’t. So they stood up from where they had been sitting outside of the forge, drawing the child’s attention as they marched over to a nail that seemed as close to a reasonable size for someone of their stature as they could find. They plucked it from the ground, tested its weight in their hands, and turned to face the child once more.

They held the nail out to their side, pointed downwards in what they had learned from the Mantises as a request for _“challenge”_. The child stared at them for a moment, scarlet eyes tracking the movement with what almost looked like suspicion, or maybe concern? They couldn’t tell. But the child didn’t hesitate for long before rising to the air and chirping with interest.

And so the challenge was met.

The child wasn’t nearly as used to combat as they were, but what they lacked in skill they made up for in enthusiasm, their claws biting almost as dangerously as their actual fangs and the little bursts of flame that released from behind them. They kept them on alert, and it was invigorating in a way that facing off against husks or other threatening bugs was not.

It was fun.

They were worn out by the time the Nailsmith was done, both lying on the ground just outside the forge’s entrance with the tops of their masks resting against each other, keeping watch from either side. It was . . . a nice time. Much nicer than earlier. And when their nail was returned to them it was certainly in better shape as well, able to swing with a precision that almost threw off their balance, if they were not quite as good at adjusting to the difference as they were. They bowed to the Nailsmith in thanks, the child chirping their own gratitude, and once again they returned to the road that would take them to their next destination.

There wasn’t much else they needed to do in the City now that their nail had been seen to. Pulling out their map, they inspected where might be the next best place to go. There was an entire area beyond the Mantis Village they knew they hadn’t explored yet, as well as somewhere beyond the Greenpath.

The Greenpath.

Mato had told them of a brother there, and Oro confirmed it. A third nailmaster who could pass on his knowledge to them. That would be useful in the days to come. They knew there were still many places they needed to explore, secrets they needed to uncover, and information they needed to learn. They knew that everything they did needed to be in further preparation for what Hornet asked them to do.

To enter that temple and defeat the Hollow Knight.

They still didn’t know what to make of her words about either choosing to perpetuate the continuation of the kingdom or to end its plight entirely. There were still so many things that they didn’t understand, and they hoped that the more they traveled, the more they explored and learned about Hallownest, the more the path might become clearer.

Three masks looked up at them from their map. Three questions waiting to be answered. One here in the City, one in the Fog Canyon, and one in that unexplored place beyond the great door the Mantis Lords had guarded.

Three masks. Three Dreamers. Three seals to be broken to enter the temple.

Three more lives to take.

A screech pulled them out of their thoughts, their mask shooting up in surprise just in time to see the child flying off with reckless abandon. They barely had time to stuff their map back into their cloak before dashing after them. Without a voice they could not call after them, could not demand for them to stop, so all they could do was follow as the child flew further and further away.

_Where were they going?!_

Into the City, through streets and buildings and tunnels until eventually they dropped down into what looked like a sewer. They hesitated only a moment before leaping down after them, thankful for once the ability to smell was not something they had been granted.

It was a damp, disgusting place, but this did not seem to deter the child in the slightest as they continued on without seemingly a care in the world. They nearly reached them a couple of times, but just as their claws almost grasped a wing, the child seemed to catch a second wind and sped on further ahead.

Were they hoping for a game of chase? If they wanted to play they could have asked, not run off with barely more than a single excited yell.

They chased the child for a while, their supposed game leading them further into the dark waterways until they reached a large open space that appeared to be some sort of junk pit. And when they finally made it through the great pool of water at the entrance, they found the child waiting patiently for them within, sitting atop a large box.

No, not a box.

A coffin?

No amount of coaxing seemed to encourage the child to come down, not until they forced the suspected coffin open in their own impatience and frustration and nearly leaped straight out of their carapace as, unsurprisingly, a body fell out of it.

Well. That was certainly morbid. If a fascination with the dead was something all of Grimm’s kin had in common, they could now at least understand the meaning behind his name.

It took them a moment to realize, though, that it was not simply the body that interested the child, but the spirographs that danced off of it.

Essence.

They had seen essence floating around the child’s kin before, and they had been present as well at the torch that they lit which summoned Grimm and his troupe to Hallownest in the first place. But that essence hadn’t been like the dream essence they had collected to improve their nail from Seer. It had been scarlet, just like their flames. And looking at this decidedly normal essence that lazily diluted into the air now, with the child sitting just above it and seemingly grinning with a look of understanding, the gears of their thoughts began to turn with a growing question.

Exactly what connection to dreams did Grimm and his kin have?

They didn’t wonder on the thought for long, pushing it away to be dealt with later and instead pulled out their dreamnail, readying it to strike against the body that lay before them.

The light grew, the spirographs danced, the child screeched.

And everything went white.

* * *

A voice called to them in this place.

It wasn’t like the calling from their void, nor like the calls of silk tied to a needle, or the metal clashing of a nail. It did not call like the flames of Grimm and his kin, nor like the glow of infection. It did not sing, it did not comfort, it did not intrigue, it did not burn.

It _roared_ with a warning, and it spat with disgust.

The place was so much like the world of too much light the Dreamers had pulled them into all that time ago, but something rang differently here. Something bit in a way that other dreams did not, like there was simply _too much_ in the air.

It spoke of trials and pain and a warmth far older than the light that plagued the dying kingdom.

And that warmth did not welcome them.

They didn’t stay for long, only enough so that they could make some quick drawings of the doors they found and the figures that surrounded them on the back of their map, just in case they needed to recall the details, or perhaps even inquire about them to another. But who could they ask? Who would have answers for something that only brought them more questions so deep within this kingdom’s corpse?

The child chirped, whirling around their horns in erratic movements.

Oh.

The child brought them here, wanted them to find this place for a reason. Grimm might know something; he might be willing to give them answers.

Well, it was a better start than where they were a moment ago.

They tucked their map back into place within their cloak, turned to their companion, and headed for the exit that would remove them from this place.

It was time to return to Dirtmouth.

* * *

Grimm had answers, but they were not what they had expected.

He knew the place; that much was certain before they had even pulled out the drawing on their map to show him. The child must have relayed what they saw with words more detailed than they could yet understand. They had expected him to know something, had thought he might even be intrigued.

They had not expected him to be quiet.

He gave few words, and even fewer answers, but he told them this much: that the place was a land of _“godseekers”_ , creatures from far beyond the Wastelands who hunted for gods in hopes that such beings would give them all that they desired. Something to devote themselves to, something to _adore_. It was a place within the realm of dreams, and it was dangerous. It was not a place to which they should return.

It wouldn’t have concerned them if Grimm spoke with disgust, or disapproval. But instead he spoke with something far emptier, far quieter. As if he himself did not entirely know what to make of it.

Nothing about quietness suited Grimm or his kin, they thought.

But he told them that, despite its dangers, it was still a place that could grant desires. Perhaps it could grant their own?

They didn’t know what to make of that at all.

Perhaps shadows could contend with the gods, he told them. Perhaps even the smallest could dance the finest. And perhaps a realm of such ancient warmth would be perfect for shadows to claim as their own.

They did not know what to make of that, either.

But he did not dwell on the matter for long. Instead, he invited them to take part in another matter; a matter far more pressing, he assured them.

A dance, between shadow and flame. For the sake of the child, for the sake of his troupe. For the sake of the ritual he had told them of upon their first meeting. One that he required of them, as the one who lit the torch.

They did not tell him no, for they didn’t have the words.

The dance was not terribly different from what they had already experienced on their journey, and they performed the steps well. Grimm seemed pleased, and the child seemed elated. When the song came to an end and the last flame extinguished, Grimm bowed to them in thanks, and they responded to him in kind.

The dance was decided complete. For now.

Grimm asked that they continued to let the child travel with them, and even if _“no”_ were a thing they could say, they did not believe they would. They were not used to traveling with companions, but maybe . . . for the child, they could make an exception.

Maybe they could make that exception long-term.

The child was clearly happy with that, whirling around and in between their horns in what they had learned was a tell of their excitement. It warmed them, in a way that their void did not find entirely disagreeable. Like the cartographer and his wife – Cornifer and Iselda. Like Mato, with his blanket and his laughs and his gentle pats. Like Quirrel and his kind words and the invigorated sparkle in his eyes.

Like Hornet, and her silk that sang a song they so desperately wanted to know.

They didn’t have a name for the child. Grimm did not offer them one, and the child seemed content to go without.

But Grimm asked _them_ if they had a name of their own, and the child seemed to wait in anticipation for their answer.

They stared, looking between both child and father before dropping their gaze to the floor. They didn’t have a name; empty little monsters like them had no need for such things.

Grimm and the child waited patiently for an answer that would not come, but wait they did, nonetheless. Somehow, that almost made it worse.

They did not give them an answer, and neither pressed the matter again. Instead, Grimm asked where they would go next, what path would they take from here?

They didn’t know.

There was the nailmaster in the Greenpath, the unexplored place beyond, and the dark land just below. There were three masks on their map that stared back at them, unwavering, unforgiving. But they did not think Grimm wanted to know their itinerary. They figured his question rang of something much deeper.

Hallownest was still dying; that something that called to them, that Hollow Knight within a dark temple sealed by light, waited for them. The radiant glow that bloomed from the eyes and shells of the once-citizens of this kingdom reached for them. Hornet, with her silk and her song, depended on them.

There were many calls they still had yet to answer. Many calls whose sources they still did not understand.

They looked up to Grimm, their gaze as dark and empty as their nothingness had always been. But no longer did they look to him with a blank expression. Instead, they met his scarlet eyes with something far more wild roiling within their own voided ones.

They did not answer him; they never could. But he seemed to understand, nonetheless.

He smiled, bowed, and though he never unlocked his eyes from their own, he did not say anything more.

And that said more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> 1 I wanted to have Grimmchild be an important part of Ghost's journey, because they always are in my playthroughs, and I think their friendship is way too overlooked.  
> 2 There will be more backstory on Oro and context for All That. That is all I will say on the matter for now >:3c  
> 3 I Wrote This Entire 9k+ Word Fic In Less Than 48 Hours. That is not a flex, I say this with an expression of abject horror. The outline, however, took me weeks.  
> 4 I took creative liberties with Grimmchild's physical attributes (having their eyes already be scarlet, their wings full, and little limbs with claws - basically similar to how they will grow up to look, but still baby), I know; don't @ me.  
> 5 This is the first fic I've ever posted that got above a T rating. Milestone, I guess.
> 
> Shoutout to Skye, Laurie, and Ravie for helping me with the outline, and shoutout to Skye and Laurie for being my betas! I owe you guys my life.


	2. We Will Rise Up and Slay Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an absolute monster of a wordcount, and I am so so sorry. Ghost has... so much to say, apparently. And I do not have the heart to silence them, even a little.
> 
> Want to emphasize again that this whole arc was supposed to be a /oneshot/. Act III has roughly 22k words, and this entire arc currently has 32k words. And we still have Act IV left. Gods help me.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been sticking with me throughout all of this. Your support means so much, and I still have so much story left in this series that I want to tell. I hope my words will do it all justice.
> 
> Please heed the updated tags for this chapter and the warnings they contain - like chapter one, things are pretty rough for a while.
> 
> (Title of this arc as well as the chapters in this fic all come from the song "The Void" by Muse)

The stag stations were truly remarkable things.

Walking had never been a problem for them. Living in the Wastelands for so long ensured that their stamina and resilience for such endeavors were a near infinite resource. They could – and, in fact, _had_ – walked for days without pause, not even beginning to feel winded or exhaustion weighing down their void. Other modes of transportation had always seemed silly to them – vastly unnecessary, even.

But they were no longer traveling alone, and . . . and maybe the Old Stag who ferried them from place to place was good company. Maybe they had come to be rather fond of company during their time in the dying kingdom of Hallownest.

**_(But company isn’t fond of you. Someday they’ll all grow tired of your emptiness, and you’ll be alone again. Like you are meant to be, like you should stop pretending you don’t have to be.)_ **

It was lucky the child seemed to enjoy the company of the Old Stag as well. They weren’t sure how they would have felt if the child decided the old beetle was more foe than friend and thought him better suited for target practice than transportation.

Fortunately for everyone, the child always shrieked in delight at the sound of thunderous claws beating against stone whenever the Old Stag approached the station. And when he would greet them both with the same kindness as he always did (for whatever reason), settling into his carriage with the child resting against their side in quiet contentment left them feeling like maybe taking the easier route could sometimes be okay.

Maybe resting, even when they didn’t need it, could be good.

The stag ride wasn’t long this time, the intended destination of Greenpath being one of the closer stops from the town of Dirtmouth where they had set off. The child had barely begun to start dozing by the time the Old Stag pulled into the Greenpath station and announced their arrival, jolting them into surprised alertness and nearly causing them to singe the side of the carriage in their alarm. It was a little amusing, and part of them wondered if laughing could be worth the effort for once.

But they had no voice, nor a mouth with which to smile. Their laughter – whatever form it would take – wouldn’t be required or wanted.

So they did not.

Their journey to Greenpath was not intended to be a long one. They knew there was another nailmaster who lived within these green caverns, and they were intent on learning whatever knowledge he could pass onto them. Only one stop in this place was required before setting off to their next destination – they had no reason to tarry with distractions.

But the memory of a broken mask pulled them away from their intended path, and they found themself wandering back to the place where they had faced Hornet that first time so long ago now. The child did not argue their decision, did not argue much of anything, if they were honest. They always seemed content to simply follow wherever they decided to go, providing endless chirps of conversation along each road.

That should worry them, should bother them, even. It was strange that the child was so willing to follow every beck and call, that they did not complain when the road twisted aimlessly without reason or explanation. The child didn’t even question their continued silence throughout it all, no matter how troublesome such a wordless existence appeared to be from their own perspective. After all, the child was very much the opposite of wordless.

But it didn’t bother them – at least, it didn’t bother them as much as it should. Yes, the child’s enthusiastic trust was alarming, but the companionship such trust provided was . . . pleasant. Enjoyable. Maybe even nice. They didn’t want their company to decide that it was actually not worth the effort. They didn’t want the child to change their mind and leave them alone again.

Did that make them cruel?

**_(Of course it does.)_ **

The clearing where they battled Hornet that first time was luckily not far at all from the stag station; it did not take them long to find it once again. Just as they had left it, the place was empty, save for the body of the one who bore the now all-too-familiar mask, with empty eyes that stared up at them as if in accusation.

**_(You stole so much from them, what else would you expect? A friendly greeting? A welcome home? You don’t deserve that. You stole whatever chance for a home they might’ve had. And then you robbed them in their final sleep. Cruel, little shadow.)_ **

The child did not say anything now, and when they took a few steps closer, kneeling down at the body’s side, the child stayed at the clearing’s entrance, resting in quiet wait.

They were like the ones in the Abyss, the little body. Black carapace as dark as void and white mask chipped and cracked in what they imagined were fatal fractures. They did not leak like the bigger one in the Ancient Basin, but instead were dry and stiff like the countless others far below.

They must have been dead for some time now. Not like the one they fought. Not like the one they killed.

Carefully, as if afraid to disturb their slumber, they turned the body over so that it rested on its back, inspecting their bare carapace for any sign of infection. But there was nothing, only the gaping hole in their thorax where a nail perfectly sized for them had been embedded when they first saw the creature. The nail itself wasn’t far, no more than a few paces away, where it had fallen when they relieved this one of their cloak.

**_(When you stole it.)_ **

They couldn’t return it now. The cloak was stained with void, bathed in shadows and bearing far more weight than the dead should carry. Even if this one was like them – comprised of void like them, once containing volatile shadows like them, _empty like them_ – they should be given the right to sleep in peace. Sleep without worries or dreams.

Part of them wondered where the shadow had gone, if it had sunk far below into the dark of the Abyss to join with the void that dwelled there, or if it floated somewhere above, lying in wait. Part of them wondered too if it had been one of those shadows they had struck while in that place, if it had lashed out at them for stealing so much from its shell even in death.

They wouldn’t blame the shadow if it had – they would probably strike at themself, too.

How much were they alike? They and this little one? They knew the ones like them all must contain void, all must have had a shadow writhing just beneath their chitin, waiting to tear itself out at the first sign of weakness. Void seemed to live in that place, that Abyss. It rested in a lake and lashed out at anything which drew close, until a light too bright for it to fight away overcame it.

Void did not like light. Void lashed out at them.

They contained void. They also could focus light.

Pale light; many times now had they heard the snail shaman refer to such light as _“soul”_. It leaked from enemies when struck down by their nail, it pooled in springs that soothed and rejuvenated an aching shell, it twisted and focused into healing and spells within them.

The mark they took from that cast-off shell of a pale wyrm glowed with the light. Pale wyrm and pale king were one in the same, so the pale king of Hallownest had something to do with the pale light, with soul.

They were void. But they were also light – paler and colder than the light of infection, but light all the same. The little one before them must have contained both void and light, too. As must have the bigger one that burned as well with the light that did not belong to them. And all the ones in the Abyss, broken and long-since dead and containing neither void nor light now in their sleep.

But void did not like light. Why would both exist within one shell?

Why were they all the same?

The sound of the child chirping drew their attention away from their thoughts, looking up to see their companion tilting their head at them in concern. They . . . must have been sitting there for quite some time. They should move on.

But it didn’t feel right to leave the little one alone like this, without even a cloak suitable for returning to them so that they might rest comfortably. So when they stood up, they did not immediately turn to leave. Instead, they returned the nail to the little one’s side, resting by their hand rather than pierced through their chest. And when that still did not feel like enough, they gathered leaves and flowers and vines from the surrounding foliage to cover the little one with like a blanket, so that maybe their sleep would feel like a home, if they ever got to know such a thing.

Warmth meant home, right? Wrapped in comfort meant home? Like when Mato held them in his lap and put a blanket around their shoulders, or when the child covered them with their wings and kept them warm and protected when the world screamed and hurt too much. Like a hand holding carefully onto their own, speaking no words but the eyes who owned it looking down at them with confusion and sadness and yet _still did not let them go._

Maybe these things were home. And whoever this little one once was, they deserved to come home, too.

* * *

Finding the nailmaster’s hut was less difficult than they had expected.

It was no surprise they had missed it their first time in Greenpath, that journey taken long before they had seen much of Hallownest and acquired tools which helped them to better traverse the sometimes-deadly terrain. But now with the help of such tools, and the frequent chirps of advice or encouragement from the child, finding those hard to reach or otherwise hidden places was almost easy.

And now the hut stood before them with only mild trouble, the bench outside its entrance able to be ignored as they did not feel a need for a rest to focus that light which healed them. They looked to the child, who looked back to them with vivid interest and excitement, and they resolutely entered within.

It was bright inside, light from Greenpath trickling in through a skylight in the ceiling. The air was warm and fresh, and a quick glance around spoke of comfort and safety, with places set aside for nests, and cups and plates and other utensils piled on a table supposedly for meals, and potted plants illuminated by lumafly lanterns in every corner.

The figure standing in the far end of the hut quickly drew their attention, however, and as quietly as they could manage, they slowly approached with careful steps. He looked like the other nailmasters, judging at least from the view of him from behind. And when they reached him and softly tapped at his cloak to draw his attention, they easily saw that the front of him looked so much like the others as well.

But this one wore an apron, splattered with paint and holding numerous brushes in its pocket. There was even a brush in his hand, poised just before an easel depicting a beautiful picture starting to come to life. They were startled, confused, and ultimately impressed – they hadn’t expected the final nailmaster to be an artist, but somehow the revelation made them feel lighter.

His name was Sheo, and much like Mato he was kind, if not a bit more reserved. He greeted both them and the child politely, though his stare appeared tired, and it lingered on them for even longer than they were used to from normal bugs and their questioning looks. But whatever he saw in their mask that gave him pause, he did not speak of it.

Instead, he talked to them of painting, of the joy of bringing life to things which previously had none. Though he eventually conceded and agreed to lay down his brush to pick up his nail instead, ready and willing to share his knowledge of combat with them, it was obvious that the art of taking life no longer brought him joy like bringing life did now.

They could not find fault in that.

Instructions were given, and arts were quickly learned, the child sitting on the table and watching them in earnest as they trained. They thought they ought to be surprised by how quickly they absorbed the new techniques, but their life had revolved so much around the study of a nail these past several weeks, whether in observation or in direct practice, that the reality of it did not startle them in the slightest as it otherwise might.

They were good, perhaps even great. Someday, they might even earn the title of nailmaster as well.

But the thought felt like a heavy weight in their void, and they decided that maybe such thoughts were better left for later times.

The nailmaster invited they and the child stay for tea, and though the same offer from others always resulted in them simply watching their own cup grow cold, they did not feel compelled to decline. He wasn’t home like Mato, nor did he hold answers like Oro, but Sheo was kind, and soft-spoken. They thought they might have liked to come visit him again, make tea a regular occurrence.

They’d met many bugs who would have tea with them now, hadn’t they?

The nailmaster talked while they sat, the child seemingly more interested in their tea than the conversation, but since their own was left ignored, they listened with rapt attention.

He spoke of simple things, paintings he wished to do, projects he had lying around to create. At one point he stood to his feet and pulled a few drawings from the walls that had been pinned up with small thorns, setting them down on the table to show them. Some of the drawings were a bit crude, while others showed signs of increased talent, depicting images ranging from simple scrawled attempts of the flora of Greenpath, to more complex still-life of objects they recognized from around the hut. He told them they were made by his child, that they had been an excellent artist, and hoped to someday paint like their father.

He spoke of them in past tense; they tried not to think about that.

Though their own reactions were lacking in visible interest, the child made up for them with their own vocal enthusiasm, prompting Sheo to search for more creations to share. He showed them little shellwood carvings, silken shawls and scarves, and even a small, embroidered apron made of a heavier cloth, still in pieces waiting to be sewn together to build a whole. He told them the apron was to be for his child, but he did not have the heart to complete it without them to assist.

He did not give a further explanation for these words.

Perhaps their curiosity had somehow been evident, or perhaps it was the child’s confusion instead that the nailmaster could read, because he once again returned to his feet and crossed the hut to one of the worktables, opening drawers and pulling out a silken scroll.

When he returned to their table once more, he explained that the scroll contained his most prized piece of art – one of the first drawings his child had made. The quality was that of a beginner, and the representation of the bugs on the silk were only recognizable due to their exaggerations. A simple child’s creation, with a very round Sheo holding a disproportionately large paintbrush, and a very small bug with a distinctly familiar mask.

For a moment, all they could do was stare. The dark eyes of the child in the drawing stared back, speaking no words but filling their mind with questions all the same. Distantly, they noted that both figures were labeled with names – “Sheo” for the round representation of the nailmaster, and “Brush” for the little bug with the mask like theirs. Much more clearly, they noted the lack of cracks in that mask, or the hole from a stab wound in their thorax.

However somewhere more distant, they noted the hut had suddenly grown darker.

**_(Alive. They were alive. Alive and with a family and a home and a name. Someone took that from them. Someone stole it. What did you do? What did you DO?! WHO TOOK THAT FROM THEM AND WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP THEM?! WHY DIDN’T YOU SAVE THEM?!)_ **

Someone was tugging them back, tiny claws pulling at their cloak as inky black spots crowded their vision. The picture was pulled away as well, by claws much larger than the ones holding onto them now. They must have done something wrong, hadn’t they? Nearly stained the picture, maybe. They hoped it was only nearly, hoped they hadn’t ruined something so precious.

**_(Like you ruined EVERYTHING ELSE? Like you promised to protect them and never leave them and never let another get stolen? Like you keep thinking yourself some sort of savior when all you do is take and take and take? When will it be enough? When will you have stolen enough? When will you just go BACK TO THE SHADOWS AND STOP TAKING EVERYTHING FROM EVERYONE?!)_ **

Something chirped at them, something shook them and wrapped warm wings around them. Something creaked like a chair being pushed back, followed by a soft pressure on the top of their mask, moving in slow, repetitive movements around and around. But the world was so, so dark. They had thought they would like the world to be dark, to be devoid of all the cruel lights. But they didn’t like it dark like this. This dark hurt; it made them shake and feel like the shadows inside of them would break out through their shell at any moment.

They wanted the light to come back.

**_(I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you. I hate you so much; why can’t you just go away? Why can’t you just STOP? EVERYONE WOULD BE HAPPIER WITHOUT YOU HERE, SO WHY WON’T YOU JUST LEAVE ALREADY?!)_ **

They didn’t know.

They didn’t know.

* * *

They stayed in the nailmaster’s hut longer than they had intended.

They weren’t sure how long it was exactly – at some point they knew they lost track of time, and when the world finally came back to them they found themself curled up in one of the nests they had noticed when first entering the hut some time ago, a blanket tucked snugly around them.

The child was there, sitting resolutely at their side and watching their surroundings with a scarlet glare while they themself were lost to them. When they sat up, and the child chirped in both surprise and concern, the nailmaster soon came to their side as well, offering a glass of something far brighter now than tea.

It looked like the pale light found in hot springs all around Hallownest, and when they carefully poured a small amount onto their outstretched palm, it shimmered and seeped into their shell with a feeling of renewed energy and clarity.

Soul.

Sheo did not explain how he knew they would find use of it, nor why he had any on hand. In a way, they were glad for that. They weren’t sure they were up for a conversation of that nature right now, not yet. They simply absorbed the rest, pouring the soul in small amounts onto their palm until the glass had been emptied, and when they felt steady once more, they rose to their feet, turning and folding the blanket neatly in the nest they had disturbed.

They didn’t think about whose nest this might’ve been. They didn’t think about how it was much too small to be Sheo’s.

There were no words of thanks they could offer, nor words of explanation for their unexpected outburst that they could give. All they could do for the nailmaster was bow their mask politely, just as Mato had taught them, and usher themself and the child to the exit.

Sheo did not stop them, but he bowed in return. For now, that was plenty.

There was nothing more that Greenpath held for them beyond corpses and regrets. With a slight wave for the child to follow, they left the hut behind and delved deeper into the land of moss and thorns. There were places beyond, places they had not been able to reach earlier in their journey, and they intended to cover every last inch of Hallownest and its surrounding lands, leaving no stone unturned.

Was it because they were looking for something? Were they simply afraid to face that final choice of which Hornet warned them? They didn’t have time to stall; Hallownest and all of its remaining inhabitants didn’t have time, the sealed Hollow Knight who called to them didn’t have time.

And yet they pressed on with their route, ignoring the ringing in their mask that told them to hurry, to dawdle no longer. Because as much as Hallownest and its Hollow Knight might depend on them, as much as Hornet depended on them, there were still too many things they didn’t know, too many things that remained hidden behind walls that were only just now starting to crack.

Like a thousand white masks staring up at them with empty eyes from the ground where they lay discarded. Voices whose words did not yet mean anything but should.

Like a broken body hidden in the underbrush, asking for peaceful rest. Or another that had burned beneath the kingdom in radiant light.

They weren’t dawdling. They were being smart. They were doing this right and making sure they did not miss anything. _They were not making the same mistakes again._

The Greenpath twisted and turned before them, opening up into new paths unexplored beyond places previously untouched. Until the air changed from that of the humid land of moss into the electric fogs of the Canyon below, and finally into something else. Something green, something old, but something altogether different.

A new place, like the Greenpath, but decidedly changed. Colder, brighter.

Paler.

There were mantises in this place, but they were not the same allies they had made in the Fungal Wastes. These mantises’ eyes glowed with infection, and when the child did not hesitate to meet them with fire and threats of destruction to them and their families, they did not reach out to stop them. These bugs did not serve the Lords, did not hold the same honor. They did not feel remorse when cutting them down.

They did _not_.

A mantis much greater than the ones before met them in challenge deep within this not-Greenpath place. He fought with a rage that they did not think could entirely be attributed to the orange glow from his eyes, and his attacks hit with a force that spoke of a pain deeper still. But the challenge was taken on all the same, and when a brave cicada that they had met on their journey before joined their rank in sudden vigor and thrill, they were certain the great mantis would fall with ease to nail and club and fire.

He did, but he was not the only to fall.

The cicada and mantis both laid at their feet, hemolymph and infection running freely among the stones that propelled them like a river seeking to water the thorns around this place. They had not been fast enough again; they let another one fall. Just like the one in the Basin, whose hand they did not take. And the one above in Greenpath, who slept without peace because they stole that too.

_Has Myla already fallen? Did Quirrel fall as well?_

**_(They fall because of you. Because the first one let you fall and now you’re returning the favor. Like the monster you are, like the monster at your side that you’ve let yourself join.)_ **

Cloth. The cicada’s name was Cloth. They would remember that. They had to remember that. They wouldn’t let her memory fall with everything else.

Something warm touched their shoulder, and when they turned they saw the child had sat down beside them ( _when had they fallen to their knees?_ ) and was staring at them in quiet concern.

Quiet really didn’t suit the family of Grimm, did it?

They patted the child’s head in reassurance, rising back to their feet and turning to continue onward, leaving the battleground behind. They could come back, tell Cloth goodbye another day, maybe when they gained words for themself **_(words aren’t for you)_** ; but for now, they had to press on.

Those who hadn’t yet fallen still waited for them. Still called to them.

They needed to hurry, before those calls died out like the rest.

* * *

Beyond the battleground lied a corpse, and beyond the corpse lied a cocoon.

The cocoon was large, so much larger than themself, and it appeared to be woven from great vines or some sort of plant-life rather than silk or something else of a bug. There were vines that glowed as well, twisting among the structure of the cocoon and reaching out like branches, some even rooting into the earth.

They had seen those glowing branches before, in the Kingdom’s Edge. And some hidden part of them knew that hadn’t been the first time, either.

**_(Saved you. Freed you from the darkness. And look how you repaid that kindness.)_ **

They didn’t know what awaited inside, but they knew coming here was the right thing to do, was the right path to take to answer those calls and end the infection. Hornet hadn’t told them about branches that glowed with pale light, but this must have been a place she would have hoped they would find. It _must_.

With the child following close behind, they entered the cocoon, and journeyed down into its center.

The cocoon held a chamber, and the chamber held a figure. Not a bug like the ones they had come to know, nor something entirely else like themself, but something tall and strange and old and familiar. A thing that shone with paleness and power, and glowing branches that they knew reached so impossibly far.

The something was alive, and she called to them with a voice that presented kindness, but it felt cold. Empty. In ways that were so different from their own coldness, their own emptiness. For she was bright, shining to the point of almost blinding, and they did not think such bright things should ever be so cold.

She called them _“it”_ , and even though they did not bear a name, the insinuation stung in a way they did not expect. She told them she had waited for them, or one like them **_(the others are all dead)_** , and that she had a gift for them, half of something powerful, kept just for them to someday take. She did not tell them why – did not give any explanation at all – instead simply dropped the something at their feet which glowed and shimmered with the same pale light that they knew meant soul.

They did not argue, did not object. They picked up the glowing thing, and quietly stored it away.

She told them of something weakening. A vessel, and they knew immediately she must have meant the Hollow Knight, her words almost mirroring those of the dreamers who called them _“little shadow”_ so long ago now. Like Hornet, she warned them of two options that were held before them, but they were not the same that Hornet had proposed. Where Hornet had urged them to conquer the infection and kill it at its source rather than perpetuate its continuation, the pale one before them told them to either do nothing or to replace that which fails, to take the latter choice which Hornet had offered. And where Hornet had urged them otherwise, this pale one requested they do exactly such.

Replace the Hollow Knight. Continue the cycle. Hold the infection themself, rather than destroy it.

Exactly what Hornet asked them _not_ to do.

She told them the Hollow Knight was misjudged, that they (she called them _“it”_ as well) were not as strong as previously believed. She told them their weakness lied in an idea instilled but did not specify what that idea could be.

They weren’t sure she believed they should hold ideas at all. Something about that hurt, but they couldn’t place why. Not in that moment, not amongst everything else.

She told them that they could do it, and she seemed to think that such praise was kind. That unlike the Hollow Knight, they were not so tainted, they were without blemishes.

Clearly, she did not know them as well as she seemed to think.

But she warned them that in spite of their blemishes, the Hollow Knight was still strong, and they should prepare accordingly. They had a sinking feeling they knew what she was trying to imply, and for now decided that it was not a thought on which they wished to focus.

And it was good, for she did not seem to wish to focus on it, either. Instead, she spoke to them of other things, telling them of the glow she sensed that they carried. The king’s brand, that mark which they took **_(stole)_** from the rotting shell of the long dead wyrm. _Her wyrm_ , she called it, and they knew that should mean something to them, but they could not parse what.

More importantly still, she also spoke of a gendered child, a guardian of the mark, and they knew without question she meant Hornet. She called her the wyrm’s, and if the wyrm was this pale one’s as well, then did that make Hornet hers too? No, it could not, for she spoke of another of whom Hornet belonged to, and that this mother and daughter bore a striking resemblance.

They did not think the pale one resembled Hornet at all. Whoever this mother was that truly shared her image, they believed she would have to be something far greater than the one before them now.

But she did speak of Hornet with a voice that rang with fondness, layered under something more distinctly somber. They didn’t know what to make of that, nor were they able to ask. So they did not. They weren’t entirely sure they wanted to, for the thought of someone holding Hornet in both affection and sadness made their void twitch with unease.

They simply listened as she spoke and waited until they were no longer wanted in this place.

The child, however, was not of the same mind. Quietly had they observed the one-sided conversation for some time, but soon enough they chirped with impatience, and they knew the child well enough now to understand that whatever words they had spoken were not said in kindness. Perhaps they should have scolded the child for that. But they did not have a voice, so perhaps they didn’t need to care.

The pale one did not react as patiently to the child’s complaints. She called them _“creature”_ , and she told themself that they would be naïve to call this child friend. Their hand itched to grab their nail at that, but they knew better than to move, knew better than to budge from their motionless standing. But when she continued to speak, talking bitingly of scarlet clans and the ruin they came to claim, they had to reach for the child quickly to hold back what they knew would be a scorching outburst.

They had overstayed their welcome; it was time to move on once more.

Without even a bow in thanks, they left the cocoon behind, not bothering to give the pale one within a final glance back.

Their void was growing tired of beholding such light.

It was not until they reached the battlefield again that they stopped in their retreat, rooted to stillness by the sight of the corpses still lying there. The one overcome by the infection of a radiant rage, the other of an ally they were not quick enough to save.

And yet that pale one expected them to be able to save everyone else?

**_(You can save them all by giving them your life like the pale one said. What good is it doing you, anyways?)_ **

The Hollow Knight was failing. They could not hold back the infection in all of their supposed strength. Nothing more than an idea instilled had presumably caused them to fail. Why should _they_ be fit to do better?

**_(You’re emptier, aren’t you? Empty things let people fall again and again. Empty things let people die. Empty things don’t care when they fail the ones they swore to protect because they do not listen to their regrets. Just like you.)_ **

They aren’t empty. She was wrong – they’re tainted and blemished and so, so full of too many ideas and cares for their failures. They would never be able to do what the Hollow Knight did, what they are still trying to do now.

**_(They’re a monster like you, but they were probably loved, at least. You aren’t so fortunate, remember? Bugs hate you; other monsters hate you; even you hate you. At least you wouldn’t be missed. Not like them. Not like the Hollow Knight. Locking you away wouldn’t bring anyone sorrow.)_ **

Mato . . . Mato called them his. Mato taught them and let them sleep in his arms. He made them tea, and asked how they were, even though they never responded.

**_(He lied.)_ **

Quirrel talked to them, told them many things. He sat with them and told them of rain. He . . . he called them friend.

**_(He lied.)_ **

Sheo looked after them when the world became too much. Cornifer gave them maps to help them find their way so they would never get lost. Iselda patted their mask and gave them tools to survive the dying kingdom and its dangers below. Seer granted them a powerful gift of her tribe and told them stories, even though they could not give her anything in return.

**_(They LIED.)_ **

Grimm . . . Grimm gave them a companion. Grimm taught them to dance, and . . . and wondered about their journey. He asked about their journey and wished them well and . . . and that meant he cared, didn’t it?

**_(HE LIED. HE LIED HE LIED HE LIED.)_ **

The child saved them when they were drowning in burning waves. The child protected them from enemies that were so much bigger than them both. The child . . . the child held them when they tore into their own shell, even though their void must have hurt them.

Was that . . . was that not something a friend would do? Would a friend not miss them if they were gone?

**_(THEY LIED. THEY ALL LIED. THEY LIE AND THEY LIE AND THEY COULD NEVER LOVE SOMETHING SO TERRIBLE AND EMPTY LIKE YOU. ALONE IS SAFER. ALONE DOESN’T LIE. ALONE WON’T LOOK BACK FOR A MOMENT JUST TO TURN AWAY AND LET YOU FALL INTO DARKNESS. YOU WOULDN’T HURT SO MUCH NOW IF YOU JUST STAYED ALONE. WHY CAN’T YOU SAVE US BOTH THE HURT AND JUST GO BACK TO BEING ALONE?!)_ **

They really weren’t so alone now, were they? And sometimes that hurt. The voices that called to them and asked so much of them could hurt just as much as they could soothe with their companies. Maybe it would hurt less to remain alone, to ignore those calls. But then who would answer them? Who would save them from the burning light that took so much? How would any of them be freed of the infection if they turned away now and only ever remained alone?

**_(You’ll free them when you die alone, just as you were meant to live.)_ **

No . . . no, Hornet didn’t want that. Hornet urged them not to.

And. And they didn’t want to die alone, either.

**_(It doesn’t matter what you WANT. It matters what you DESERVE. Monsters deserve to die alone. Shadows deserve to DIE ALONE. Just like the ones you let fall.)_ **

Shadows were things casted by light. If light did not exist, then it would all be shadows. Shadows wouldn’t have to die; shadows wouldn’t have to be alone at all.

If they killed the light, maybe _they_ wouldn’t have to be alone, either?

**_(You’re going to ruin everything this way. You always ruin everything.)_ **

Maybe.

But Hornet asked them to end the infection. Hornet called them by a name. If they were going to listen to anyone, maybe they should listen to Hornet.

The world was swimming in swirls of darkness, and it took a moment for them to realize it had become clouded in void once more. They wiped at their mask, doing their best to quickly scrub away the tears that had fallen without intent. The child sat next to them again; a wing draped protectively over their shoulders while they watched the area around them. Standing guard for them.

Protecting them.

The child did that a lot, despite the fact that they were sure they must be the older of the two. Either way, they were grateful, and they so desperately wished for a voice that they could use to share that gratitude.

But they didn’t have a voice, they didn’t think they were supposed to ever have one. All they could do was give looks, and maybe indicate with motions. Was there a way they could create words with their hands? Could they someday learn to speak with motions and not sounds?

Maybe someday they could ask Grimm, or Mato, or Cornifer and Iselda. But for now, they simply reached their arms out to the child and pulled them into a hug like they had seen other bugs do for each other so many times before. Like Mato sometimes did for them. Like the child did when they hurt so terribly.

The child chirped in surprise but did not pull away. They wrapped their other wing around their shoulders and returned the embrace without question.

They didn’t want to believe this was a lie, that every other kind gesture they had received since coming to this kingdom had all been false. Whether or not that belief was true, they couldn’t say. But they were going to act as if it was, fight as if it was.

And if that final fight did lead to their end, maybe they could rest peacefully knowing that for a moment, they hadn’t been alone.

* * *

The gift the pale one gave them was half of a whole.

Like her, and the many soul-infused things in Hallownest, it glowed with a cold white light. Closer inspection revealed that it had the appearance of a charm, cleaved neatly in swirling halves for reasons they couldn’t discern. The other half existed somewhere, and whatever the item revealed itself to be once whole, they were sure it would be something ultimately beneficial to their goal.

The pale one, at the very least, did want them to achieve some sort of end.

Discovering where the other half could be, however, was a far more difficult conclusion to uncover. They wondered briefly if it would be reasonable to make the trek back to Dirtmouth, to press Grimm for answers, but based on the child’s own poor reaction to the pale one, and the way she spoke of their Troupe in general, they did not think bridging those two lights together, even in discussion, would be . . . wise.

There was always Quirrel; Quirrel was smart, or at least so he seemed to them. He probably knew a great deal of things, including things less easily understood by normal means. After all, he did teach them of the City’s unnatural rain. And he knew of the temple’s significance, even if he didn’t have an explanation for why.

But Quirrel wasn’t where they last left him. They didn’t know where he could be at all, and Hallownest was vast. He could be anywhere by now, or maybe even no longer in the kingdom.

**_(Shuffling in the dark with eyes glowing far too bright, orange cysts bursting forth from a carapace marred by light. Would he bleed more hemolymph or infection when you cut him down, do you think?)_ **

No, they couldn’t trust their luck in finding Quirrel. There, however, was Lemm in the City proper. He knew about so many unusual and hidden things, seemed to dedicate his life to their study. But he also wasn’t kind, and that was a particular problem more directly for the child. After the meeting with the pale one and her biting words, they did not want to bring the child into further places where they might be treated with hostility. Lemm would not do.

Above the City, however, were the Resting Grounds, and those meant Seer. Seer knew so many things and spoke to both of them with such kindness. She offered them tea and a place to rest, like Mato or Sheo had both done. And she called them Wielder, called them something so close to a name.

_Like Hornet . . ._

The road to the Resting Grounds was long, but the stagways provided ample travel from one side of the kingdom to the other. Between the pleasant company of the Old Stag, and the comforting rest the ride offered, it almost felt like no time at all before the green of the land of moss was replaced by the quiet stones of the grounds which housed the last remaining moth.

Just as every time before, Seer greeted them with unmasked fondness, and did not even ask before rising to prepare the tea. Once she and they and child were all settled into the comfortable cushions of Seer’s home, the glowing gift was placed on her table before the moth in request of inspection.

She did not look to the gift with the same kindness as she looked to them.

Charm was all she called it, but they knew the words she kept hidden just below the surface. _Soul, pale light, Hallownest’s king._ They were obvious enough when she suggested they look for answers below the City, to the grounds where a palace once stood. She warned them to ready their tools, to prepare the gift she had granted them, so that hidden places may be uncovered more thoroughly.

And so they did just as she said. And when more essence had been recovered for the dreamnail and returned to Seer to inspect, the gift opened with brilliant light and power that should have frightened them with its warmth, but in the hands of one they had come to trust, it only eased the roiling of their void within.

Their dreamnail had awoken, she told them. And it was time now that they used it to its fullest capabilities.

Thanks were offered in the single motion of a bow (and the grateful chirp of the child), and they once more left the Resting Grounds behind.

* * *

They had entered dreams before, been pulled in by both the hands of others and the strikings of their own making. It should not have been a surprise when the same occurred in those grounds just east of the Basin.

And yet the startling, sudden glow of white all around nearly jolted them out of their shell.

The shock wore off after a time, but the heavy presence of this place did not release its grip on them, not when facing shining armors curiously filled with a darkness like themself, and not even when dodging jarring obstacles of whirring blades and lunging spikes.

No, the presence only grew the further into the hidden palace they went. And with each floor ascended, each path overcome, their own dread grew with it.

There were bugs in this place, pale faces that the child happily struck down with flames upon first sight. They probably should have scolded them for that, but they could not deny the discomfort those cold gazes set into their shell. On the occasion they made out their words before the bugs met their singed demises, they heard snatches of pleas to a king, offerings of help and of loyalty to a monarch that did not stand before them when the bugs knelt to bow.

And yet a brand had been etched onto their hand. A mark which heralded them as ruler of this land. One that glowed and made itself known to the faces who crowded the palace halls in spaces where saws and spikes did not interfere.

Maybe Grimm’s flames could burn this light away too.

Time blurred together in that place. What felt like hours could have only been minutes for all they were aware, but the exertion of making it through each new hall of deadly terrors was enough to make them firmly believe it had in fact been years.

Whoever designed this palace truly deserved to taste the fruits of their labor.

They lost track of how many blades they fell upon, how many times they heard the child screech in fright before the world dissolved into light instead of darkness. Their shadows never once broke out, not like they were prone to do when their failures were so evident. Instead they would wake some ways back from where they met that end, child dutifully watching over them until they rose to their feet once more, shell and void both equally and fully intact.

There was likely a reason for that.

It was likely not important right now.

The higher they climbed, the heavier the presence they felt when first entering this place became, and the brighter the light all around them seemed to get. Something about that was uncomfortable, _familiar,_ and it pricked at their carapace, like phantom spikes sinking into chitin and jagged edges of stone ripping desperately at torn cloaks.

**_(Do you remember how many bodies you climbed over that first time? How many broke apart under your feet and burst like rotten seedlings? They’ve long since decomposed by now. Nothing left but empty masks when you were last there, remember?)_ **

It was the child who first noticed when the climb finally came to an end, shrieking in elation upon reaching an elevator that would ferry them far above on motes of pale light. More suits of armor littered these halls at the top, but whatever void that had once given them animation had long since left them as nothing more than empty shells – did not even twitch in defense as they and the child drifted past.

**_(They’re almost like you, aren’t they? Shells of light concealing fathomless darkness, not even able to scream in their own demise. Does that make them kin? Does that make you automaton?)_ **

Absently, they nudged one of the armors with a foot, watching as it slumped further against the wall where it had been laid to rest.

**_(No. These likely never knew rest, were never awake at all. Not like you, constantly awake when you should have turned to sleep so long ago. Maybe now you’ll finally make use of your waking.)_ **

Further up, farther in. The light that abounded in this place suddenly shifted into shadows, and a room grander than all the others before opened beyond them into darkened display.

A room with a throne, and upon that throne sat a figure robed in glowing white. A figure whose likeness they had seen many times now throughout Hallownest.

The pale king.

The cast-off shell in the Kingdom’s Edge belonged to a pale wyrm. The pale wyrm died and was born anew as this kingdom’s monarch. Was this that monarch, then? Was this the once great wyrm?

He was . . . smaller than expected. His likenesses must have been greatly exaggerated, they supposed.

They stepped closer, watching the king with unblinking eyes **_(you can’t do that anyways)_** , hesitating as if in wait for him to turn his head and rebuke them for entering his palace uninvited.

He did not move a breadth.

They stood before him now, glancing up at the king on his throne as the darkness swirled around them in steely silence. His eyes did not follow their movements, did not betray any chance of life left in his shell.

He was dead.

They . . . did not know what to make of that. And if the child’s silence just behind them said anything of their own thoughts, they felt much the same. Hallownest had been called the eternal kingdom, and its monarch beheld as a god. And yet here he sat, cold, quiet, and dead.

Not even a nail stuck in his chest to give reason for his departure.

The pale one in the cocoon of branches had called the wyrm hers. She must have been his queen. And she also called Hornet his, had made comment on still finding fondness in her, despite the child not being her own.

And yet Hornet was like them. Hornet was alone. Here sat her father, dead without reason, and only a stag’s ride away resided a figure who affectionately called her _child_ , despite having no obligation to her. And yet _Hornet was alone._

Hallownest gasped with dying breaths, infection burned through its citizens and the shells of ones who looked like _them_ , a Hollow Knight damned to eternal vigil slowly broke apart under the kingdom’s weight, and a solemn princess watched it all unravel like thread in a shaky grasp, alone.

While their king and god sat safe in his palace and comfortably _died_.

Damn their shadows. Damn the bugs who fled from their empty gaze. Damn everything that ever dared to tell them not to feel. For in that moment they felt so, _so much_.

And those feelings _screamed_.

They did not strike the king once, nor did they strike him twice. Not three times nor four, not seven nor ten. They struck and they struck until counting was no longer a thing they could consider. They struck until his shell cracked and shattered. They struck until his crown was relieved of his head, until his soul had no further shell on which to cling.

They struck until the feelings quieted into gasping cries, and they simply could not hold their nail any longer.

Hallownest died the moment it put its faith in a god that would someday leave his daughter alone to tend to his kingdom’s corpse. And if only shadows and flames could save it now, then so be it.

They would serve Hallownest’s remains far better than its god ever did.

* * *

The palace hid more than just corpses.

It was a while before they left the throne room, them and child both making use of the place where the king once sat as god and monarch for resting, while the fragment of the supposed charm glittered quietly on the floor. They didn’t bother with it, not for some time. When they decided the rest had gone on long enough, and the child seemed ready to continue their journey as well, they still did not retrieve the fragment, ignoring it instead for exploring the palace further before bothering with the remains of the king.

Their explorations heralded interesting finds, including a strange egg just to the east of the throne room with a seal that they did not understand, a darkened workshop with barely comprehensible notes on experiments involving void, and even more surprising still, a hidden wall some levels below that led to an entire wing previously undiscovered.

A wing that would have turned them away after only a few minutes’ time if not for the soul-infused statues dispersed within.

They were familiar, and it didn’t take long before they realized why. The likeness had been copied down on their map, covering both the center of the City of Tears as well as the temple in the Crossroads. The figure of the Hollow Knight.

Whatever connection the Hollow Knight had to this place, they were certain discovering those answers would be far more valuable than any number of scales off the pale king’s back.

So they pressed on, spending hours and hours making their way through the thorn-filled halls and past whirring blades and striking spikes. They covered the same ground again and again with each shattering of their mask that the child somehow recovered and returned to safety for the light of this place to knit back together. They still did not understand why their shadows did not remain as stains upon the world for them to shove back inside, but if that was one thing at least that decided to not give them trouble for once, they were not going to argue.

And when they finally reached the wing’s end, it became clear that the struggle had indeed been worth it.

First they found a room, set up in such a way that they could imagine a grub had made use of it. They briefly wondered if it had been Hornet’s room before shuddering at the thought of her growing up in such a wretched place. But next they found a hallway, and at its end they found something even more unexpected.

Two silhouettes, frozen in what could only be a memory, for they knew one of the figures lay in pieces not too far above them, and the other could not be in this place at all.

It was the pale king, looking out onto a false image of the kingdom below. And sitting by his side was one that looked so much like themself, and yet their horns stood straighter, were pronged more distinctly, and they were cloaked in light rather than darkness.

They didn’t need the child’s surprised chirp to alert themself to the familiarity. They knew without a thought that they were seeing the Hollow Knight, albeit younger and smaller than any of the depictions they had seen displayed in their travels (not that there had been many). The king’s image eventually looked down to them with a slight tilt of his mask, and the Hollow Knight’s own answered his look in kind.

And then the memory dissolved into light. And that wing was no more.

**_(The light stole them away again. Do you think they felt the same emptiness when looking at him that they felt when they glanced behind to you and did nothing?)_ **

_Exactly how many children did the pale king intend to damn for his kingdom?_

They did not stay in the palace much longer after that, could not bear the white light a moment more. They returned to the throne room, collected the glowing fragment, and let the dream shatter around them.

* * *

The two fragments did make a charm, and they glowed with endless soul.

They could feel it seeping into their shell, healing wounds they hadn’t even bothered to note because they were deemed too insignificant to waste the time or soul to focus. But it eased the aches and hurts of days and weeks past, passively filling them with energy anew. If the charm had come from anywhere else, they might have even considered it a marvel and wonder.

But the charm came from two pale beings that made their void roil with the mere memories of their faces. It whispered in cold breaths about secret places of birth hidden far below. It edged them towards the Basin they had so wished to never enter again. This was not a charm to behold with unguarded interest, much less fondness.

But with that in mind, they did not ignore the whispers, all the same. They hefted their nail onto their back, and they made the short walk deep, deep down into the ancient darkness below.

The door to the Abyss stood open before them, and the whispers at its entrance echoed with reminders of refuse and regrets. Had those regrets been the pale king’s? Had that refuse been the broken masks littered along the Abyss’s floor? They could feel their void shifting, the shadows within their nothingness unsettled by a thought just barely peeking out over the edge of their mind. A thought they valiantly attempted to suppress for the time being.

Something new awaited them within, something they did not face on their first journey into this place. And that something beckoned with claws darkened by void, stained with that which they knew more intimately than a bug knows their own hemolymph.

Well. They weren’t about to start ignoring calls now, were they?

The child was asked to remain at the top, to wait for them where darkness could not suffocate their flames. Though the request was not asked with words, or anything else eloquent enough to make such a distinct point, the simple action of pointing to the child, and then to the floor, was enough to relay the message.

The child understood; and though they wrapped their wings around them tightly in a warm farewell, they did not argue the decision.

They turned away from the warmth and light of the world above, and once more faced the cold darkness below.

The climb down this time was easier than the last, and they couldn’t ignore the itching thought that they had become rather practiced with it. And when they finally reached the floor, they barely gave the shadows that lingered there more than a second glance before moving on with that instinctual familiarity.

**_(Of course this place feels like a second skin. It is home, isn’t it?)_ **

No light shined in this place beyond the lumafly lantern they had purchased long ago, and the discomforting eerie glow of the eyes of drifting shadows. Only when they reached one end of the central chamber did other lights spring forth, one from the glow of the new charm growing in intensity, and another from where the Abyss floor had shifted and opened into tunnels beneath that were still yet darker than the room around them.

A place of birth, the charm had whispered. And with a sinking realization, they believed they might soon discover whose.

The tunnels below the main room of the Abyss were just as disquieting, but not nearly as threateningly open. They were small, constricting, and filled with more shadows than even the lakeside held. Had these shadows been trapped down in this place, unable to escape to the lake above? If that were the case, maybe now they could finally find freedom from their suffocating prison.

At least, that’s what this place felt like to them.

The shadows still met them with hostility, and as much as striking the shadows now filled them with a discomforting regret, they could not avoid the action entirely. It was a great relief when they finally seemed to come to an end of this place, a last room holding nothing more than an egg blackened by void which reflected an image of themself on its smoothed edge.

**_(One of the last remaining finally returns home. It’s been too long, hasn’t it?)_ **

Home was Mato. Home was rest with tea untouched and stories told. Home was flames and chirps and unrelenting mischief. This wasn’t home.

**_(Then why do you look upon it with such sorrow?)_ **

They . . . they do not convey sorrow, not a sorrow that could be seen, at least. They were never capable of such displays, would _never_ be capable, not without the help of a nail striking through shell or tears of darkness threatening to stain precious pages made by children long dead. The reflection of themself standing before them betrayed nothing. They might have felt so many things, but none of them shown on their mask. None of them cried for this place.

**_(Then prove it. Peer into your thoughts, strike true with that gift of warm light and lay yourself bare for your mind to finally behold. Or did you come here for nothing? Did you come this far just to run away again?)_ **

They weren’t running. Not anymore, not when so many called for them to stay.

They drew back the dreamnail, striking their image without another moment’s hesitation.

And then the world turned black.

* * *

“No cost too great.”

_Another body falls. So many have fallen already this cycle. They can’t let anymore break, can’t let the smaller one above them break._

_They climb. Higher and higher. There’s a sibling beneath their claws, shattered on the edge of the next platform they need to ascend. They have to rip off an arm, tear away soft bits of shell from their side so that they have room to gain purchase and pull themself up. Its slick with oozing void, and they almost lose their grip entirely. But they hold firm, because the smaller one is still ascending. The smaller one is still making their way towards the light._

_They can’t let them reach the light._

“No mind to think.”

_Just above, another loses their grip, flying past them before crunching on a platform far below. They think they might recognize that one, the curve of their horns reminding them of something they can’t quite place._

**(Light far too bright and leaking orange over old scars and burning, burning, burning, they’re burning again, always burning, always breaking, it’s never going to stop.)**

_They keep climbing, keep ascending. It isn’t much farther now. There are less siblings up here, their shells dryer and empty of vestiges of void left behind from where their carapaces have rotted open. Did these ones break from the fall? Did they make it so high they grew tired and simply lied down to rest and never got up again? Did they realize how close they were to escape, to the light that called them all to climb?_

“No will to break.”

_The light’s voice is echoing so loudly in their mind, deafening the sounds of the last few siblings that are still falling from above and breaking open below. It is just them and the smaller one now, still making their ways to the top, still ascending ever further._

_Why does this light call to them? Why does it demand so much from them like this? The Abyss is their home, the void keeping them safe. The light only takes and takes and breaks everyone around them, and yet it tells them now that they had nothing within to shatter? Why is the light so cruel? Why does the light hate them so?_

**(Left you all to die. Going to leave you all to die. Will leave everyone to die alone and in pain while the light will get to die at home and in comfort. It knows nothing beyond cruelness, beyond hatred. What a terrible, terrible light.)**

_They try to call out to the small sibling above, to warn them of the light and what it means to do, what it_ will _do. But they do not hear, they do not respond. They just keep climbing and climbing, while they can do nothing more than silently follow._

“No voice to cry suffering.”

_They would cry if they could, they want so desperately to cry now. Their sibling isn’t listening; their sibling is going to be taken, is going to be hurt. They know with sinking dread that they won’t make it in time, that the light will take their sibling away from them, and the light will raise them to burn._

_And they won’t be able to stop it._

“Born of God and Void.”

_There are no gods, none that they care about. All they care about is their sibling, reaching them and saving them from the dangerous light above. But they cannot reach them. There are no more bodies of siblings who broke long ago to give boost to their steps as they ascend higher, just the two of them and the light, and the accursed climb that took so many others._

_It isn’t fair. The light hadn’t even begun to call when this one started to climb. They are still too small to make such an attempt, anyways. It isn’t fair,_ it isn’t fair.

“You shall Seal the blinding Light that plagues their Dreams.”

No, sibling! The light will burn! The light will hurt! The light will take and take, and you won’t be able to contain it! Please, sibling, please!

_The smaller one has reached the top now; they can see their silhouette shadowed by the light that stands before them. They haven’t made it in time, they are going to fail them again._

_Why are they being forced to watch themself fail them again?!_

_They make the final leap, grasping desperately for the ledge they know they will not ascend, not now, not this climb. And now they can see the light in its full glory, whole and without the cracks inflicted by the angry lashings of a nail._

_The pale king, standing before their sibling, with all his sovereignty, with all his light._

_Like a beacon signaling the call of death._

“You are the Vessel.”

No! Do not listen! Sibling, turn around, please! Sibling!

“You are the Hollow Knight.”

_Their sibling turns, meets their gaze, and silently turns away as they follow their king to their future._

_To their death._

_The ledge gives way beneath their claws, and for the second time they fall into oblivion._

* * *

_Born of god and void._

They clawed their way out of the tunnels, shades of siblings watching as they passed with quiet attention before dissolving themselves back into the void-enriched earth.

_God; the pale king. Hallownest’s monarch who granted his people higher thought and safety through soul._

The Abyss was lighter now, or maybe it was just them? The charm they wore that granted them access to the tunnels below no longer glowed with pale light, but instead pulsed with the darkness of void. No more was it clipped to their cloak like all the others that they kept equipped either, but instead embedded itself into their chitin, just where a heart might have been if a creature such as themself could possess one.

_Void; the emptiness that resided in the Abyss, that resided within themself. That which consumed all without prejudice, that which had always been ununified in its collective existence._

They did not ascend to the top to rejoin the child, not yet. There was somewhere else they needed go, somewhere further in, deeper still.

_Vessel; that which the pale king called his Hollow Knight, that which gave title to creatures who were not bugs, because the void had stripped them of anything resembling life._

They walked until they reached the lake, the glow from the lighthouse still shining down onto its inky depths. The lake hissed and churned just below the surface, just where the light could not touch. It screamed for the light to be snuffed out, for the void to be set free once more.

_Hollow; what the pale king desired his vessel to be, to seal away the light that plagued the dreams of Hallownest’s citizens. The light that Seer declared radiant, that loved so deeply her love turned to hate when it was not returned to her. Hollow to hold her hate, to contain her rage. Because void was hollow; void was empty. So believed the pale king._

They knelt by the lake, dipping a hand into its coolness. Something about their touch seemed to soothe it, and somehow that knowledge soothed them in return. They raised the hand, lifting it with shadows following obediently behind, until those shadows grew and grew and extended so far they reached the lighthouse, and the pale glow within was extinguished.

Void was not as the pale king believed. Void did not lack a mind, or a will, or even a voice. The lake rose above them, thrashing and wailing with eons of suppressed emotion that begged to be heard now that it was freed of the light that bound it.

So they listened, as long as the void needed. Until the void had said all it needed to say, and the lake relaxed once more into quiet resignation.

The void had been alone for so long – they understood; they had been alone too. It did not have to be alone any longer, the siblings drowned within did not have to cry in unrest anymore. For they understood – the light had done a terrible thing to it, to them. The light did not acknowledge the void for what it was, nor did he acknowledge the vessels for what they were. But they would. They would listen, they would care, and they would make it right again.

They were empty, and they were filled with shadows and so many regrets. But the void was too, and maybe that meant they would never be alone again.

There was comfort in that.

One light was gone, but another still remained. A sibling was still held trapped in her grasp, and the remnants of the dead pale light’s as well. They were going to free them; they were going to kill the light that hurt them, remove the remains of the light that sealed them.

Somehow, it was going to be okay. The void would soon know rest. And maybe, just maybe, they would too.

They rose to their feet and turned to leave the lake behind. Flames still waited patiently for them above, and there was still more to do this day before the end.

It was time to find their sister.

* * *

To say that the child was displeased with them would have been a great understatement.

Apparently their time in the Abyss had been longer than they realized, and – if they were interpreting the child’s screeches correctly – their companion had almost left their patient vigil to seek out their father in their worry, doing the unthinkable and abandoning their watch in the midst of their fear for their friend.

Friend. Were they friends? Could they find some way to tell the child that they would like to call them friend, too?

Luckily, the child did not hold their lateness against them for long. They returned to the path that would lead them out of the Basin, and the child once more fell into step of helping them fight back the infected bugs that stood in their way. It was nice, having the knowledge that there was someone by their side, willing to risk themself for their safety, and trusted them enough to know they would do the same in return.

Maybe they were friends, after all.

There was only one place on their map that they had not yet investigated, and it laid to the west of the Mantis Village. They knew the whispers of deep, dark places where beasts dwelled, heard them spoken of in harsh tones from the mantises, and solemn speculations from the mushrooms above. Perhaps much earlier in their journey they would have thought the possibility of Hornet residing there a frightful thing. But knowing what they did now, were they not also something a bit unsettling? Were they not also birthed in the dark amongst monsters? Was not the friend at their side a monster, too, in their own right?

Perhaps monsters and beasts and things that filled bugs with distaste were far more friendly than the gods that bugs so much liked to worship.

Getting to the dark place to the west took more time than they would have liked, but their arrival there was not marred by displeasure. The cartographer, Cornifer, was waiting just within its entrance, meager map ready and willing to sell (and for his trouble they escorted him back to the mantises just a few stone’s throws away). But as for the actual exploration of this new location – the queendom of Deepnest, as Cornifer told them – that was even more perilous and exhausting than the actual trek from one side of Hallownest to the other had been.

Though they could see why the dark was indeed unsettling, and why the residents of the queendom were so highly feared by the bugs of Hallownest, they did not think Deepnest such a terrible place, if they were honest. Of course, it would always be nicer if the creatures they came across did not insist on meeting them with claws and fangs and blades, but they couldn’t be picky, they supposed.

And after all, the child seemed to have fun with target practice, at least.

Still, it took days for them to reach the queendom’s center, a village suspended above a lake almost as dark as the one of void below the palace grounds. It likely would have taken them even longer to find, if not for the . . . lovely . . . assistance of a many-legged beast who wore a mask that hid her face just long enough to lull them into a false sense of security before she tried to take a bite out of them.

The child had singed her front legs. She had called them both horribly rude. They couldn’t really argue with either.

Getting inside of the village was yet another struggle, as they were starting to learn most things were in Deepnest. The central home was obvious to find, but if not for the child they wouldn’t have made it past the front entrance before being attacked by figures in misleading attires of civility. Luckily, the child knew better than most how to identify false faces.

The further in the central den they traveled, the more they could feel their slowly-building dread grow. They knew what lie in wait inside, had referred to their map enough times to memorize the exact placements of the three masks of those dreamers they had been charged to kill, to break the seals they held over the temple that contained the Hollow Knight. They had memorized the names and the titles that were written in stone on their memorial in the Resting Grounds, and with each step that drew them closer to the chamber of the Beast, the more the pieces began to click into place of just who that Beast must be.

And when they finally stepped inside, they knew their musings to be true almost immediately.

She was larger than any beast they had seen thus far (save the gargantuan ones who rumbled like storms), larger than almost every bug they had encountered in all of Hallownest, for that matter. A weapon much too thin to be a nail rested by the plinth where she lay, within all too easy reach of her grasp.

The fact that she was asleep did not make the terror at all less significant.

The dreamnail glowed with light as they approached, and they knew without a doubt just what they needed to do to fulfill that task placed upon them. It would be easy, they thought. If the Beast remained asleep in her dream as well, it would be as simple as striking down a vengefly.

But they hadn’t come here to break the seals, had they?

The Hollow Knight needed to be freed, the radiant light needed to be destroyed. Nothing mattered more than this.

But that other dream existed, that place the child found that Grimm had warned them about, containing seekers of gods and fulfillments of desires. If his words had spoken true, if he somehow knew what they must do and what his words had implied to them, perhaps that insinuated that there was another way?

Perhaps these dreamers did not have to perish to save the sibling they had sealed?

The child watched them with curious eyes, waiting for them to act. But it was not them nor the child who pushed the world further into motion, rather instead a familiar figure in red, whose voice cut as sharply as the needle she wore on her back.

Hornet.

They did not run to her when she addressed them, did not embrace her like their mind so longed for them to do at her calling them _“little ghost”_. Instead they stood still and watched, listening as she questioned their hesitance. Waited patiently as she rebuked their failure to act, _because Hallownest was dying, Deepnest was dead, and if the Hollow Knight was not released from their burden, and that poisonous light not finally snuffed out, soon they would all be dead too._

They did not argue her words, did not interrupt her tirade as she scolded them again and again for their lateness of the hour. And when she seemed to finally tire herself of words, dropping to her knees by the resting place of her sleeping mother as tears slowly started to well in the eyes of her mask, they did not scold her presumed weakness in return.

For she had spent so long needing to be strong on her own, hadn’t she?

They sat with her instead, and over by the entrance to the chamber, the child sat as well, allowing the two of them space on their own. When Hornet asked them to leave, they did not budge. When she demanded they get on with their task, they did not lift a claw. And when she broke down further still in exhaustion and sorrow at what she likely believed was soon to come, they rested a hand on one of hers, taking it and squeezing it gently like they had done all those weeks before.

They were exhausted too.

It was a long time before either moved again, before they rose to their feet and beckoned for the child to do the same. Long moments passed before they took two of Hornet’s hands with their own, and they held her gaze with as much fervent promise as their void was capable of displaying. And when they finally pulled away, when Hornet nodded to them in return, as if she somehow could understand the words they so longed to tell her, the candles that had been burning brightly upon their arrival now dimmed with their near extinguishment.

They were going to save Hallownest. They were going to save their sibling. And they weren’t going to take their sister’s family in order to do it.

Only gods held their ire now. Only gods deserved the taste of their nail and the flames which accompanied it.

It was time to see Grimm once more before the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> 1 I wrote 6k of these words in one day. During that day I forgot to eat until 10pm. Luckily I live in a major city and was able to order late night pizza. Do NOT follow my example.  
> 2 If you are squinting at how certain things like the Pale King's name is not capitalized, it's because every character I write for this series is written to only see what's important to them as having capitalized names or titles, as a stylistic choice on my part. Ghost does not respect the Pale King, so they do not honor him with respecting the integrity of his title.  
> 3 I almost panicked and split this up into three chapters. I'm very glad I didn't.  
> 4 Killing off Cloth was a last minute decision and I am so so sorry.  
> 5 Thanks to Fado and Spot for beta-ing this chapter for me! I owe you both my life and my (very limited) wealth.  
> 6 There will be backstory information given for both Broken Vessel and Greenpath Vessel at a later time :3c


End file.
